Until I Die

by Amy Plum

  “Thank you.”

  “I would say ‘you’re welcome,’ but I can’t take all the credit. This isn’t just from me to you. It is from all of us to you. I know how upset you were when Arthur made you feel like you weren’t one of us. I want you to know that you aren’t an outsider. You aren’t a revenant, but you are still one of us. This signum means that you are kindred.”

  I leaned into his arms. And as he nestled my hair with his cheek, I closed my eyes and wished that nothing would ever change. That time would stop and we could stay like this forever.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE TWO WEEKS THAT HAD PASSED SINCE I HAD last been to Le Corbeau had seemed to stretch on forever. But finally it was Tuesday, and I was ready to dart out of my last class to go directly to the relic shop.

  So when I walked out of the school’s front gate and saw Jules waiting for me, I felt like someone had just taken my wrists and slapped a pair of handcuffs on them. “Jules,” I said with undisguised disappointment, “what are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Kate,” Jules said, obviously amused. “Your boyfriend has asked me to be your bodyguard this afternoon.”

  “He what?” I exclaimed.

  Jules moved forward to kiss my cheeks, and I leaned backward so he couldn’t reach me, which made him laugh outright. “Hey—don’t blame this on me!” he said, backing away with his hands up in the universal “I surrender” gesture. “Vincent gets to handle the dangerous missions while I guard the damsel in distress.”

  “I am so not distressed. But I did have something I wanted to do . . . on my own.” And then his words sunk in. “What dangerous mission?” I asked, searching his face.

  “Ah! I finally get your undivided attention.” He grinned. “Could I tell you more once we are in the car and out of the bus lane?” Jules motioned to the BMW, which was parked illegally a few yards away. I saw a bus approaching, flashing its lights for him to move, and hurried to jump in before the bus driver could make a scene.

  “Are we waiting for the ever-effervescent Georgia?” Jules asked as he slid behind the wheel and put the car in gear.

  “No, she’s got drama club till six,” I answered absently, my mind on what Vincent could be doing.

  I waited until he was off and said, “Okay. I’m in the car. Now spill!”

  As we drove, Jules told me that the revenants who were house-sitting for Geneviève had called Jean-Baptiste that morning to inform him of a break-in. While they had been out, someone had entered the house and turned the rooms upside down. The door had been forced, the lock broken. But nothing seemed to be missing. Jean-Baptiste and Vincent had gone to investigate.

  “And all that means I get a guard because . . .”

  “Because everyone is wondering if this means the numa are back on the move, so Vincent was worried about you. And since JB insisted on him going along to Geneviève’s, I volunteered to pick you up,” Jules said with a satisfied smile, keeping his eyes on the road. “So where is this thing you wanted to do? I’ll take you.”

  “It was a private errand. But I’ll do that another time,” I sighed. My stomach twisted with anxiety as I wondered when I’d have another opportunity to visit the shop. “So, how about you take me to Vincent?”

  “How about I take you to my studio? Much less dangerous. Plus, I need a model and you could sit for me.”

  “You want me to sit for a portrait?” I asked, stunned.

  “Actually, at the moment I’m concentrating on full-length reclining nudes, in the spirit of Modigliani,” he said. He was making an effort to keep a straight face.

  “If you think for even a second that I’m going to take off my clothes in front of you, Jules . . . ,” I began.

  He burst out laughing, slapping the steering wheel with his hand. “Just kidding, Kates. You’re a lady. I wouldn’t ask you to compromise your purity like one of my paid models—a bunch of low-heeled strumpets, the lot of them!”

  After I’d seen a half-dressed model posing in Jules’s studio, Vincent had told me that the girls were usually university students needing cash for their school expenses. A far cry from “low-heeled strumpets.” Jules was trying the guilt-trip method of attack. And it was working.

  “Okay, I’ll pose for you,” I conceded. “But under no circumstances will any article of clothing leave my body while I am in your studio.”

  “And if you’re elsewhere?” he asked, breaking into a sly smile.

  I rolled my eyes as we drove over the bridge and the Eiffel Tower came into view.

  I inhaled deeply as we walked into his studio, taking in one of my favorite odors—the smell of wet oil paint. I had breathed in that same air since I was a small child, whenever I visited my grandmother’s restoration studio. In my mind the smell was indelibly associated with beauty. My eyes followed my nose expectantly, knowing that a reward must be right around the corner.

  And what a reward! The walls of Jules’s studio were filled with color. Primary-hued geometric cityscapes and nudes painted in luscious pinks and flesh tones. My brain shifted into art mode. Surrounded by all that beauty, I felt whole. Fulfilled. Like a light had been switched on inside me, illuminating all my mind’s dark, musty corners.

  My reverie was interrupted by a crashing sound from the next room. Jules rushed past me before I could even react, having grabbed a sword from an umbrella stand, and hurled himself through the doorway. I heard a howl and, by way of the connecting door, saw a man leap into the air.

  Time stopped as I watched him suspended in space, unable to believe what I was seeing, before I was jolted back to reality by an earsplitting crash as his body hit the large plate-glass window and disappeared outside. I ran to the now-jagged opening, my shoes crunching splintered glass beneath them, and saw the man land on his feet on the cobblestone pavement two floors below. Unshaken by the fall, he brushed himself off and then, holding his hands to his torso to staunch the flow of blood from a wound, he ran across the courtyard and out onto the street.

  I spun to see Jules standing with a bloody sword in hand, staring at the broken window. Next to him, a small desk was covered in art books and gallery brochures, which were strewn as if someone had thrown them all up in the air and let them land where they would. The desk drawer lay on the floor, empty.

  “Did he . . . ?” Jules began, unable to finish his question.

  I nodded. “He landed on his feet and ran off. But I think you got him,” I said encouragingly. “He was holding his side when he ran away.”

  “What was a numa doing in my studio?” Jules murmured, looking shell-shocked. “And how the hell did he get in? The window and the door both have top-quality locks.”

  Amid the glass shards, I spied a glint of metal. Picking my way carefully toward it, I bent to fish out a tiny silver set of tools strung on a chain. They looked exactly like the type of thing that could pick a door lock. I held them up for Jules to see. As he stared, his face turned a strange shade of purple. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit speed-dial.

  “Vince? Yeah, she’s here. Just listen! They came here, too—to my studio. . . . Only one—he got away. No, she’s fine. Yes, I’m sure.” Jules passed me the phone.

  “Kate, are you okay?” Vincent was speaking in the controlled tone he used when he was hiding panic.

  “I’m fine. The guy didn’t even notice me. Jules went straight for him and he jumped through the window.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “There’s no reason, Vincent. We’re both okay. Finish what you’re doing—I’m going to see you tonight anyway.”

  “We have to come. See if we can figure out what he was looking for. We’re probably only twenty minutes by cab, so just stay put. I have to see you to believe that you’re safe. Could you give the phone back to Jules?”

  Jules l
istened as Vincent spoke for a moment, and then, putting the phone back in his pocket and shaking himself out of his stupor, he looked up at me as if he had finally noticed that I was there. Dropping the sword to the floor, he strode over and took my shoulders in his hands, gripping me a little too hard. “Kate, you’re fine? You didn’t get cut anywhere?” He searched my face.

  I was so stunned by his intensity that I couldn’t speak. Jules was always joking around me, teasing me, but now his wide eyes held my own transfixed, and his expression couldn’t be more serious. I shook my head and managed to utter, “I’m not hurt.”

  He exhaled as he registered the fact that I hadn’t been touched and, grasping me to himself, hugged me so hard I couldn’t breathe. After a few seconds, his grip loosened, but he didn’t let go until I finally moved, pulling back gently as I said his name.

  His hands dropped to his sides, but he stayed—his face inches away from my own and his warm breath soft on my skin—for what seemed like forever. Then, abruptly, he turned and strode out of the studio. I heard his feet on the wooden stairway, and watched out the gaping hole of the window as he crossed the courtyard and stood motionless by the stone doorway to the street, waiting there for the others to arrive.

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  HarperCollins Publishers

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  TWENTY-FIVE

  ONCE AT THE STUDIO, VINCENT AND JEAN-BAPTISTE had combed it for clues while Jules and Ambrose nailed a big board of plywood over the gaping window. Now we were in the car on our way back to La Maison for what JB was calling an “emergency meeting.”

  My phone rang. Seeing Charlotte’s name on the screen, I answered immediately. This was the first time in over a month that one of us had actually picked up the phone to call.

  “Hi, Charlotte!” I said, trying to clear my voice of the tension that was weighing on everyone in our group.

  “Kate,” she responded, sounding as if she were just next door instead of on the other side of the country.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine. I had to call you, though—I heard from Charles last night. He’s in Germany, living with a group of revenants in Berlin. And he’s okay!”

  “Oh, Charlotte. You must be so relieved.”

  “I can’t even tell you. I was practically giddy when he told me he was safe, and then I started yelling at him for not calling before. But we’re okay now.”

  “I’m so glad to hear that. See! All those names you were calling him were . . . well, they were still mostly true.”

  Charlotte laughed; then her voice became serious. “Actually, Kate, the guys he’s staying with got a tip that big things are going down with the numa in Paris. He said he wasn’t ready to talk to the others yet, and asked me to warn JB.”

  “Well, he’s just in time. Did you hear about what happened to Geneviève’s house?”

  “Yeah. Jean-Baptiste called this morning to ask if there was anything in her house that a numa could be after,” Charlotte affirmed.

  “The same thing just happened in Jules’s studio a couple hours ago.”

  She gasped. “Oh, Kate. I wish I could come back. There’s no reason for me to stay here now that I know that Charles isn’t going to be showing up on the doorstep at any moment.”

  “They why don’t you?” I asked, glancing at Vincent, who was sitting silently beside me in the car.

  “It’s Geneviève. She doesn’t want to go back to Paris. And I can tell that being here, far away from her memories of her life with Philippe, is helping her. I can’t just ditch her, and I don’t want to suggest something that’s going to set her back. But with everything going on there, do you think Jean-Baptiste needs me?”

  “I don’t know, Charlotte. It seems like pure chaos here for the moment. If Geneviève needs you there, it might be better for both of you if you stay.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. I’ll bring it up with Jean-Baptiste anyway just to be sure. But Kate?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m so glad Charles is safe.”

  “I know, Charlotte. Me too. It’s good that he’s with other revenants,” I said. And not with numa, I thought, knowing that Charlotte had feared the same thing.

  Once again, we were assembled around the massive hearth in the great hall. Jean-Baptiste explained what they had found at Geneviève’s and Jules’s, which was basically nothing. However, it was obvious from the items that had been disturbed that the object of the break-ins was some sort of document. But neither Geneviève nor Jules could imagine anything the numa would want to steal from them.

  “I have racked my brain,” said Jean-Baptiste, placing two fingers on his brow for emphasis, “and can’t think of one thing among our paperwork that would be of any interest to our enemies.”

  “How about banking information?” Violette asked. “Maybe they’re looking for account numbers or something.”

  “Well, that’s an idea,” said Jules. “But we’re paperless now—all our banking is online. And even if the numa weren’t already rich off all of their underworld dealings, I doubt our bank accounts would be their first target if they needed some extra cash.”

  Violette frowned.

  “May I?” Gaspard asked. He was so overly polite that he never cut into a conversation without asking permission first. Jean-Baptiste nodded at him. “Although I agree that we must focus on discovering what they might be after, we should not rule out the fact that this might merely be a diversion. They may be attempting to draw our attention away from some larger plan they are carrying out.”

  I spoke up. “Charlotte mentioned something on the phone when we were on our way here.” Everyone turned toward me. “Charles called her. He’s in Berlin, staying with a group of revenants. He phoned to warn her that they had heard rumors that something big was happening with the Paris numa.”

  “Yes, she called me too—” Gaspard began, but was cut off by Violette.

  “Why didn’t I hear anything about this?” she exclaimed, her face pink with emotion, signaling that she was officially pissed off.

  “I—I was going to consult with you later, Violette,” Gaspard stuttered. “But Charlotte just phoned me last night, and with the break-ins this morning, there was so much going on.”

  Violette pressed her temples in exasperation. “How am I supposed to be helping out if people withhold such important information from me?”

  Everyone stared at her. Ambrose rolled his eyes toward me and mouthed the words, Drama. Queen.

  She glanced around at us, as if she had just noticed we were all there, and then looked back at Gaspard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve just been trying so hard. Digging wherever I could, and hitting a brick wall everywhere I turn . . . when there’s information sitting right in front of us.” She stood and walked to Gaspard, placing a dainty hand on his arm and leading him away from the group.

  “Now what did Charlotte say, exactly?” she quizzed him as they left the room.

  On the other side of the hearth, at the edge of the group, Arthur sat in an armchair, shaking his head tiredly like the long-suffering husband of a temperamental spouse. He pulled a pen and notebook out of his jacket’s inner pocket and began to write.

  I squeezed Vincent’s fingers. He was sitting in front of me on the floor, his elbow propped on the couch so that he could hold my hand. He glanced up, and I inclined my head toward Arthur. “Is he taking notes?” I whispered. Vincent’s eyes traveled across the room. “No, he’s writing,” he responded.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued.

  “He’s an author. Of novels.” Vincent laughed at the astounded look on my face. “What, you didn’t think we could have careers that didn’t involve saving lives? Arthur and Violette have to do something with their time. They don’t even own a TV.”

  “What does he write?”

  “Well, have you heard of Pierre Delacourt?”

  “Yeah, the h
istorical thriller guy? I actually think I read one of his books in an airport once. That’s Arthur’s pen name?”

  Vincent nodded. “That and Aurélie Saint-Onge, Henri Cotillon, and Hilaire Benois.”

  My mouth dropped open as I realized that the writer behind some of the most famous pseudonyms in French literature from the last couple of centuries was sitting across the room from me, scribbling in a notebook.

  “This train wreck of a meeting is adjourned,” snapped Jean-Baptiste, drawing attention to the fact that no one was paying attention to him anymore. “I will speak to each of you individually about what I need you to do. Vincent,” he said, walking over to us, “I need you to fly to Berlin tomorrow. Talk to Charles’s source. Find out everything they know and where they’re getting their information.” Vincent nodded, and Jean-Baptiste moved on to Jules.

  “Wow, just like that and you’re off,” I said. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  “I would guess a couple of days. It’ll depend on what I find when I get there. How much information there actually is. Although I have a feeling that part of the reason JB is sending me instead of just phoning is to have someone check up on Charles.”

  I nodded, and although I felt a twinge of sadness that he was going away—so much had been going on that we had barely had time to catch up since he’d been dormant—I also felt a sense of relief. Because the only thing on my mind right now was when I could get to Le Corbeau.

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  TWENTY-SIX